


hello yesterday

by Sedusa



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissociation, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychosis, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stuttering, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-11 21:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16860961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sedusa/pseuds/Sedusa
Summary: Channel this,he thought to himself, a soothing whisper dipped in poison calling from the back of his mind.Channel the hurt, the depression, the crushing feeling of isolation; filter and purify your emotions. Use them, abuse them, forget you ever felt like anything but a fucktoy. A long list of strangers ready to fill this urge now sit at your fingertips. Why wait?… Will any of them hurt me?… Would that be so bad?No matter how many people see him, Jeremy Heere has never felt so alone.





	1. come and drink of me

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to my FP Jessica, and my sister Jaydee. Without the both of you, I never would've come this far.
> 
> I can't believe I'm finally posting this. This story is deeply personal; while fictionalized, some of the encounters I describe are based on ones I actually had. Likely because of that, writing this took much longer then I expected.  
> Just of quick note;  
> -I lean heavily on my headcanon that Jeremy has a stutter, and this is based on my own interpretations of the original cast version.  
> -The name of each part/chapter are lines from songs I used to help pace my outline.  
> -I'm choosing not to tag all of the potentially triggering material here. Please proceed with caution.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carry Me, by Nick Cave

There wasn’t any other feeling quite like a tongue down your throat.

Jeremy’s steps backwards held the sway of someone who would’ve collapsed, were it not for a stranger’s hands with a steady grip tight on his ass. Somewhere, far off, he registered the sound of the hotel door being kicked closed. 

This was it. His first hookup. 

… These jeans were way too tight for his (over)enthusiasm. He hoped his breath tasted alright. No one had ever talked about how to prepare for  _ real _ kissing, besides the obvious. Was this toothpaste too sharp? He didn’t have anything in his teeth, did he?

The tongue rubbing against his gums belonged to a Tinder match, some guy whose name Jeremy had already forgotten (really? That fast?). There was a strong taste of blueberry-flavored coffee on him, which Jeremy had never heard of before, yet he vowed to buy exactly five thousand cases of it when he got home. Oh, God, he was going to come home smelling like sex, wasn’t he? Would his dad know? That’d be absolutely mortifying.

One of the hands on his ass moved, sliding along Jeremy’s thighs to the curve of his hips. Chills ran across his skin, and he gripped a stiff collar to pull his Anonymous Hookup closer.

It’s official: the fake ID was the best purchase he’s ever made. Sure, it cost him and Michael 200 bucks, but getting off with anything other than his own hand totally justified that. Feeling attractive and wanted, if only for a single evening, was  _ intoxicating _ .

And God, the eyes on him at the bar. What a rush! He avoided buying a drink (Michael’s paranoid frets echoing around his mind), but got no end of offers. Long Island after Long Island, men old enough to lecture his father eying him top to bottom, this raw objectification that left him weak in the knees.

It was almost a pity he’d already made a date. He’d have to go back, alone, to enjoy the attention.

_ Smack _ . He sucked in a breath, his ass stinging. He hadn’t been spanked since he was a child--what a lewd sensation for what had once been an innocuous punishment. 

His back hit the wall as the tongue down his throat pulled away, a sparkle of saliva bridged between them for a second.

“You’re such a slut.”

That’s true.

Or, well, it would be, if Jeremy’s next date went this well.

Mouth on his neck, he could hear an echo of his high pitched whines and half moans, and face splotching both in arousal and embarrassment. He’d have to work on that. Maybe he could practice his vocals during the twice-daily masturbation sessions.

_ Twice. Oh please, it was thrice at least. _

Teeth slid across his jugular, trailing towards his pronounced collarbone and finally sinking into skin. An electric feeling, sending shock waves radiating across before pooling in his cock. His hips rocked forward, begging for attention. The firm hands from before pushed him back, denying him bodily contact.

_ God, _ he was so hard. He worried he’d burst, fully clothed and untouched, underneath those delicious teeth.

Speaking of clothes. He almost ripped his cardigan tossing it aside. There was too much stimulus for him to keep covered anymore. Hands helped pull his shirt away, separation brief before teeth latched on to Jeremy’s throat again--a sharper bite, right above his adams’ apple, and then, sucking. A hickey! He’d always wanted one, a visual display, for the world to know that he, Jeremy Heere, did, in fact,  _ get some _ .

Childish. But it still left him gasping for more.

… if only the Jeremy of five months ago--who’d accidentally stumbled upon one of Michael’s (vintage) gay porno mags, full of confusion and alarm at his own physical response--could see him now. There’d been fear that he was gay at first, melting into comfort when confirming that images of women still enticed him, only for another wave of confusion when the attraction to men still didn’t disappear.

Bisexual. The answer had been bisexuality. It wasn’t something he was familiar with; for all of Michael’s gushing on queer culture and the queer community, Jeremy had thought himself an outsider. Why spend time personally researching something that had no effect on you? Well, as it turns out...

He’d also been a bit worried he was just a desperate virgin. It was jarring, actually, to realize he had a lot of built-in misconceptions about sexuality. Michael called it ‘heteronormativity’ (complete with a sneer, the distaste undercut by the Slushie straw still in his mouth), and yeah, maybe it was.

The next couple of months were spent working up the courage to do… well, anything. Girls terrified Jeremy too much, mommy issues and the memory of unwanted perfume mixed with cheap alcohol at a party having landed them squarely in the “unapproachable” category, but boys weren’t like that. Sure, he was still anxious, but it felt like less risk overall. 

If you took the romantic aspect out and focused squarely on sex, anyway. Men just seemed a little less picky, and a little more approachable.

Suddenly, palms, against his crotch. Jeremy’s eyes almost popped out of his skull. New, wonderful, exciting physical contact--oh, Christ, fuck, he really hoped he didn’t cream right in his jeans. A weak, pathetic whine came, high pitched and needy, as he bucked into the touch. Fuck. Fuck, that felt so  _ good _ .

But just as suddenly, the pressure was gone. Hands moved to his shoulders, and he found himself obeying a wordless command to his knees. 

In that moment, he thought of childhood prayers. Of bowing beside his bed in a request for love and safety. His hands, which had once threaded together for God, now fumbled with the unfamiliar belt buckle of a stranger, mouth dry with the anticipation of an entirely different form of worship.


	2. dreams are made winding through her hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spiders, by System of a Down

Jeremy’s jaw hurt.

He’d given a handjob before. It was only once, with Michael, in eighth grade. Maybe it didn't count, but he got the idea: masturbation, plus. He had a cock, he knew how to work it, he just had to learn how to read his partner’s cues. Which, yeah, he'd been shit at when he was 13, but it’s not like that’s not surprising.

Blowjobs, though...

Maybe they were easier, in a way. His partner seemed content to take the lead, hands clawing at Jeremy's scalp, leaving his neck aching as he was manually guided into a bobbing rhythm. He had no real influence, serving as just a warm mouth to fuck.

But it was so... _exhausting._

Especially after Jeremy rocked himself into an orgasm halfway through.

In the heat of it, he’d just felt so... _perverse_. He’d abandoned his plan to wait; palming himself over his clothes, despite fretting it before, only to cum a few thrusts later. Given his inexperience, in retrospect, this was probably unavoidable. He hadn't heard of anyone starting out with the skills nor stamina of your average porn star. Like any other skill, he probably just needed practice.

Not that he was adverse to the idea.

He shook his hands, droplets of fancy hotel tap water flying off, before rubbing his jaw. He’d staggered to the bathroom not long after swallowing, but already he could feel various parts of his head starting to throb. Even his mouth was bruised red, the stretching and his furious teeth brushing (God, that _taste_ ) both leaving his lips feeling stretched out in that way guys at school joked about the cunts of slutty girls.

… Man, he hoped his face wasn’t visibly swollen tomorrow. _Does that even happen?_

He grabbed a hand towel beside the sink, and had to take a moment to appreciate the quality of the sparkling white fabric. A bright rose-gold paint was incorporated into an insignia in the corner, a detail which felt so flashy and artistic he suddenly realized he’d never actually been in a hotel before. His lower-middle class status growing up meant his family technically had the cash, but it always seemed a waste when motels were perfectly safe (usually). Now, he was left feeling a bit mesmerized.

That same insignia gold painted the edges of the sink, faux-marble the very height of fancy. Even the complimentary soap, almost the size of store-bought and shaped to match its lemon scent, felt elegant in comparison to the stained carpets and shampoo packets he was used to.

Contemplating the differences between hotels and motels reminded him of late nights on the road with his dad--and occasionally, his mom, before the divorce--and soon he found himself falling down long-forgotten memories. He could remember clearly the feeling of being in their tiny car, bags full of dollar burgers surrounding them, as his younger self focused on the eventual destination instead of his surroundings. He wished he'd spent a little more time really observing the rooms they’d been in.

Funny, for a family that rarely took vacations, they sure traveled a lot when he was younger. No moving; business trips and relative visits only, interspersed with the odd family outing. He'd spent a lot of time around extended family back then.

… something about visiting relatives bothered him now. He couldn’t name a particular reason, and yet his stomach clenched every time he considered reaching out--especially with his mother’s side. Her sins didn't correlate, and they still wanted contact, so he really should respond to their letters, but...

It just didn't sit right. It never had. Why can’t he remember the reason?

The bed in the other room creaked. That should be his cue to leave, but his mind was still far away, focused on a family he hadn't talked to in years. Jeremy frowned. This wasn’t the time, but he found his mind wandering far away from himself lately. Like a disconnect between body and soul. That was fine when he was alone, but it made human interaction unpleasant.

"Hey, are you sticking around?"

Jeremy wasn't sure why he hesitated. It wasn't like they’d planned to linger after; their ‘date’ had consisted of "hey, you ready for sex? Awesome, me too!", which was only slightly more than they’d said online. Still, he hovered at the sink, unsure how to answer.

The bed creaked again. Jeremy shifted to the side, and the hookup came to stand next to him. "I wasn't too rough on you, was I?"

"N-no. Um, I mean, I enjoyed it." He fiddled with his sleeve, the cardigan (he’d already redressed) a welcome distraction from their reflection in the mirror. Standing together like this felt oddly romantic, something Jeremy had no interest in. Uncomfortable anxiety bubbled in his stomach, and he felt himself shedding the last bit of his previous oral cocksleeve persona, his average, neurotic self taking control once more.

"Did you?" A hum. Jeremy didn't like the edge of coy in his tone, but it wasn’t enough to actually annoy him. "You know, your mouth felt so good, baby."

_Oh, baby._

Wait.

What was that?

He knew he responded with something, but he wasn’t sure what. His mind caught on a single word--baby. _Baby, baby, baby._ Why? Jeremy had never had a connection to it before, yet he was stuck. His mind and mouth burned, needles against skin, and he hates it. Something is wrong, something is wrong, he can feel it in his bones and his blood and he’s never had this reaction, this has never happened to him, why does he feel so

Oh.

...it's always weird, when an old memory pops back into existence. A single smell, or a picture, a phrase here or there, and your mind shifts. Maybe it wasn’t the comically overblown portrayal on TV, but it could certainly cut off every other thought, demanding your full mental attention.

Jeremy ran on autopilot, already shuffling out the door. He declined an offer for another go, and promised further contact that would never come. In his head, on a loop, played--

 _"Oh, baby," a breath against his face. The smell was long forgotten, but the way his nose crinkled wasn't._ It's gross _, he'd been thinking._ It's gross and I don't like it _._

_Hands traced the curve of his spine and the swell of his stomach. The feeling was just as bad, and he tried to push away. A gentle laugh responded. "Now, now. You're just so soft. Here, give me a kiss..."_

The sky outside was licorice black, and everything smelled of gasoline.


	3. and until the end, that’s how it’ll be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saint Bernard, by Lincoln

_ Ignore it. _   


The idea was certainly tempting. It’s not like Jeremy didn’t have the experience; he could lock this new-old trauma somewhere between 'the way mom looked at me' and 'the feeling of electrocution' and tell himself it wasn't important. Let it go. Leave it in the past.   


… except.   


Except, every time he went to the bathroom, Jeremy threw up.   


The memory didn't even... that wasn't a bathroom. Probably. A flash of sensation; something similar to carpet, short and coarse against his legs.   


Maybe a bathmat?   


No. No, stop thinking about the details. This had to do with  _ baby _ , not the past sensations. Present concepts. He wasn't reacting to the memory, he was reacting to  _ remembering _ the memory.   


How stupid was that?   


... how could he ever deal with it by himself?   


Jeremy shuffled his backpack to the side, twisting and turning cheap strap through his nervous fingers. There really was only one person he felt comfortable telling, who he knew wouldn't treat him like a broken doll or a crazy person. Someone he already told everything to.   


That didn't mean Jeremy wasn't completely, illogically terrified Michael would abandon him.   


_ Breathe, Jeremy. That's not going to happen.  _   


Right. Breathing. He knew how to do that. It still came out as a pathetic mirror of the shake in his legs, but it felt nice to focus on something.

_ Okay. On the count of three, I’ll knock. _

_ One. _

_ Two. _

_ Th--  _

“Jeremy!!”

The door swung open, and he stumbled backwards, flailing wildly. He managed to grab the banister with one hand, but tipped; Michael’s unusually cheerful face popped into view, only to go wide eyed as he reached out to grab Jeremy’s shirt. “Shit, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you!”

Jeremy laughed, breathless, his feet dancing to safety as Michael pulled him upright. The surprise managed to knock him out of the rapid cycling of his thoughts for the first time in the three days after his date, and the smile that came was also his first genuine emote. “Hey Michael,” he said, clapping him on the back. “How’s, uh, Springfest going?”

‘Springfest’ was Michael’s version of partying during Spring Break (often alone), to relieve stress. Predictably, the smell of smoke, already fairly strong on Michael’s porch, wafted off his red hoodie like fog. The pleasantly goofy and strangely excited grin settled back onto his face, as he shoved his hand in his pouch, pulling out an unfamiliar cassette tape. “Before I forget, take this! My muse is even better than last year, I’ve made, like, twenty of these babies.”

It was a new mixtape. Michael always made about 10-15 a year, most of which came out of Springfest and Monster Smash (his Halloween-in-July celebration, of course). This time, though, the label wasn’t the standard hipster-style ‘pretend-messy handwriting on a taped sticky note’ he usually made; instead, a more, ah, ‘official’ design had been printed off. It followed the pattern of an Alan Wagner knock off near perfectly, complete with a clipart maple leaf wearing red shades in the center.

“... N-Nick Cave and the, um, Bad Weeds?”

“Remixes! Natty Dreads meets Abattoir Blues, my friend, and they both come out better for it.” He struck a pose, and Jeremy giggled, slipping the cassette into his pocket. “I finally got Cave’s discography, so I figured I could try to manually  _ mash it up _ , y’know? Musical exploration is the best part of Springfest!”

They headed inside, Jeremy shuffling behind as Michael pranced towards the basement. “Is th-that what’s got you so, um…” 

Words weren’t Jeremy’s strong suit. His stutter only seemed to increase with age and anxiety, gaps in sentences elongating, with ‘um’s and ‘like’s peppered throughout. He frowned, turning his tongue like an engine, click, click, click-- “g-giddy?”

Maybe not the right word, but close enough. Michael’s eyes read coy as he opened the basement door. “I’ll tell you over a bowl. You have a bad case of sobriety, my friend.”

Michael’s basement was a mini-paradise. A solid layer of smoke rolled past as they walked down the stairs, the gas curtain parting as they stepped into a different dimension of retro video games, stale pizza, and arthouse movie marathons. Tall piles of clean and dirty clothes, several outfits only worn once before Michael turned his nose up entirely, created an ever-shifting landscape. A half dozen broken recliners provided further decor, acting as the thrones of broken electronics bought from flea markets and pawn shops. At the very back sat several different generations of sound and entertainment systems, Michael the only person who truly knew what worked and how.

And those was only the things that stuck out most.

This chaos was a comfort space. One far more intimate to Jeremy then home itself, in fact; the decor was tailor made for two loser best friends, stuck in a past they weren’t born early enough to experience. 

Sometimes, being here made Jeremy forget why he should hate himself.

Michael skipped down the stairs, two steps at a time. Jeremy followed slowly as usual, giggling when Michael bounced across the room and threw himself on one of the beanbags. Dramatics were a universal constant among the Mells, as was the case with most families in town. The personality of their school could be felt from miles away, a glowing radiation of strong will and determination. 

Yet somehow, nobody shined quite as beautifully as Michael.

“Jeremy, my man.” As Jeremy sat in his designated bag, Michael pulled out his glass jar full of bud baggies, along with the accompanying cat-shaped pipe try. Michael was a joint hound, but with the sizes he rolled, he had to impose a strict limit of one every few days (… with the exception of school days, where after hours relaxation was necessary for the sake of his mental health). Keeping the stash from running out before a refill was priority numero uno. Jeremy preferred bongs himself, but pipes were generally easier when slouching. “My buddy. My no bromo. My rider or die… r.”

Michael giggle-snorted at his own joke, the sound mixing into metal teeth on buds on mesh. He dumped the contents of his Pokémon-shaped grinder--it stuck too much, but he couldn’t stop using it, blatant nostalgia porn just too good to pass up--onto the tray. Jeremy waited for him to keep talking, but he fixated. Small amounts of near-powder were pinched between index and thumb, carefully sprinkled into the bowl until full. Once finish, he gently pushed them into compaction. “... uh, Michael, what were you--”

“So the other day,” the conversation picked back up again, as if it had never stopped. “Y’know how me and Rich have been hanging out a lot recently?”

A record scratched. Slam into the brake. Jeremy’s chest seized. 

An innocuous sentence. They’d just hung out a lot recently.

_ … they have?  _

The weight of his visit crash so suddenly into Jeremy it nearly threw him over. Right; right. He wasn’t--he hadn’t come here to...

Now that the flow had been tilted, every memory of the past few days rushed through, leaving him sick. And still, all he could focus on was  _ hanging out  _ and  _ Rich _ and  _ Y’know? _ , as if Jeremy could only build himself off a framework of Michael.

He frowned. 

As far as he was aware, Michael and Rich only thought of each other in passing. It wasn’t that he couldn’t imagine a friendship; now, after pills and fires and hospital room jerk sessions, Jeremy had begun to understand just how cool Rich actually was. But... they’d never talked to each other. Or shown any interpersonal interest. Rich had asked about Michael a few times, yeah, but that was it. Michael certainly hadn’t mentioned him.

Jeremy’s stomach clenched.

_ … no. No. Stop it. _

“Um,” Jeremy squeaked, fiddling with the hem of his cardigan. “Y-yeah.”

Michael snapped his lighter open, pipe to his mouth. Deep breath in, a hold, and then he blew. Fresh, white tendrils circled Jeremy’s head, the dizziness that came edged with an unfamiliar discomfort. “Well. He came over last night.”

Jeremy’s skin started to crawl.

“Oh yeah? What, um. What happened?”

Michael’s grin held the sort of power left him weak in the knees.

“He asked me out.”

Oh.

_ Oh, no _ .

… it wasn’t like he’d never expected this would happen.

It was always an inevitably. Jeremy had pursued romance himself, afterall; Brooke, and then Christine. If he was going to make his move, he should’ve asked already.

He should’ve asked already.

He should’ve asked already.

He should’ve--

“Really? Th-that’s awesome! Congratu… c-congratulations, Michael!” 

Jeremy wasn't great at hiding emotions, but years of practice meant he knew how to navigate Michael's radar. Just concentrate on breathing. Look him in the eyes. Smile. He’ll never know the difference.

Or maybe he did. Maybe they were both familiar enough with the need for privacy that he wouldn’t ask out of respect.

Maybe he just didn’t care.

… It didn’t matter. Michael's face radiated a pure joy that Jeremy had never seen on him. He wasn't a particularly happy person; casual depression and loneliness, both things they shared, together. Probably the reason they’d bonded as well as they had, their interests meshing so perfectly only because of how deeply they understood each other.

Now it was just him. Broken, sad Jeremy, who never moved on.

_ “Get out of my way, loser.” _

He deserved this.


	4. I don't care if it hurts, I want to have control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creep, by Radiohead

The rest of the day passed by under a shroud of general malaise. Jeremy tried to enjoy their time together, the mix of weed and video games and Michael usually a small joy in life, but it all blended into a formless, grey sludge. When asked why he'd come over, or if he had any plans, Jeremy deflected. Lying to Michael twice in a day left him feeling dirty and uncomfortable, but it was certainly better then telling him the truth.

_... I can never tell him what’s going on, huh? _

Jeremy kicked his door closed, throwing his backpack on the bed and collapsing beside it with a thud. Mr. Heere was out again; the therapy he’d started at the beginning of the year had already given back the energy he’d lost after She left, and Jeremy was old enough that an empty apartment wasn’t a big deal. 

Seeing his dad live again made Jeremy beam with relief (and a touch of pride), but with Michael behind a new disconnect, he felt distinctly alone.  _ Baby  _ oozed back into his mind for the first time since he left the basement, a corrosive burn beneath his skull.

Today was a bust. Somehow, he’d done just enough to isolate himself further, and now he had a new record for feeling worthless and abandoned.  _ Pathetic. _

Jeremy rolled onto his side, dragging an old chromebook towards himself. The metallic grey of its lid was covered by faded Artbubble stickers of copyrighted posters and obscure furry references, peppered with random nicks and scratches scattered about to give away it's age. He pushed it open as he sat up, before unlocking with his go-to password ( _ eraserhead99 _ , a constant after the 8th grade Lynch marathon). 

Apparently, he’d left the browser open on his pinned Tinder tab. The pit of his stomach throbbed. He hadn't been out again since  _ that night  _ (in fact, he’d begun to consider deleting his account altogether), but right now...

Well, it wasn't like Jeremy had much else to do, was it? Every time he tried to engage an activity, the haze of discomfort presenting like a disgusting tackiness to his skin stealing his attention away. All he wanted to do was get through this, yet he felt seconds away from critical failure.

… his arm was itching again. 

Jeremy rolled up his sleeve to expose a pale, oblong scar that ran along the underside of his forearm, starting just below the faded tendrils from the squip electroshocks. He thought he was past this, but with the throb growing insistent, he had no choice but to give in; his nails scraped down the length, pressure hard and steady, and the skin turned swollen and red seconds later.

_ Channel this,  _ he thought to himself, a soothing whisper dipped in poison calling from the back of his mind. _ Channel the hurt, the depression, the crushing feeling of isolation; filter and purify your emotions. Use them, abuse them, forget you ever felt like anything but a fucktoy. A long list of strangers ready to fill this urge now sit at your fingertips. Why wait? _

… Will any of them hurt me?

_ … Would that be so bad? _

20 new messages. Jeremy felt his heart flutter; this feeling, of being attractive and  _ desired _ , gave him a rush like power to the hungry. His mouth ached at the thought of being fucked raw, memories of tongue to throat and hand up shirt wiping his mind clean. It was hard to remember why he ever wanted to stay away.

His fingers danced faster than his mind. Before he had a chance to stop himself, he’d already hit enter on a  _ dtf _ . He hadn’t even looked at their profile; the preview photo wasn’t offensive nor grotesque, and, at the moment, those were his only qualifications.

His skin buzzed. He waited only the time it took to pull up his itunes before he was already messaging another one, two, three--

\--everyone.

He was messaging everyone he matched with, as the shrill vocals of Jimmy Urie drilled holes into his skull.

_ Fuck it. I’m doing this. The worst that’ll happen is I have to turn someone down. That’s not bad. I can do that. I need this. _

_ I need this. _

He really did. Jeremy could feel it riveting through every pore in his body; a desire wrapping tight around his core as a buffer for intrusive thoughts. He closed his eyes, letting restless lust wash it all away. Why think about Michael when you can fantasize about handjobs at the back of Denny’s? He had better, more productive things to do with his time.

When Jeremy opened his eyes again, he’d already gotten several replies.


	5. I just don't wanna be alone right now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late Nite, by Riki Lindhome

The next month found Jeremy’s behavior in a snowball full of men.

First up was Strong Arm. He was a short, stocky man, with bulging biceps and a crew cut. He kept to mutual masturbation; Jeremy’s own orgasm came fast and hard, but Strong Arm’s took  _ so long _ . Jeremy’s foot had fallen asleep by the time cum was finally dripping down his chin.

Next was Weird Cologne. Weird Cologne was confirmed, visually, to dab scents onto his wrists--yet, for whatever bizarre reason, the smell was... popcorn and peanuts. Nothing unpleasant, just… strange. He favored face fucking, and liked to grip Jeremy’s hair at the hairline when he swallowed.

Then came Strange Outfit, all neon purple and plaid suit offset by a ruby red tie with a tiny-green-clovers-and-large-orange-roses repeat pattern. More than anything, he wanted to  _ talk _ , so Jeremy had put on his best smile and pretended to care while jerking him off under the table at Burger King.

Monster Cock had a cock that was Just Too Big. Jeremy really did try to get that  _ thing _ down his throat, but, admittedly, he was concerned about choking to death. Thankfully, this seemed to be pretty common for Monster Cock, and they both worked to get the deed done.

Dad Bod was… Uncomfortable. Jeremy tried to leave, the eerily similarity between this stranger and the way his dad was proportioned left him feeling somewhat distressed. His disinterest went ignored. For hours after, he tried not to think about whether his dad’s own stomach would look the same, clenched with pleasure.

And then, Small Hands. He just… had small hands.

… They weren’t enough.

Jeremy’s sleeping was infrequent and slight. The more he went out, the more he wanted; the thought of intimacy with strangers plagued his mind at every waking moment. As insomnia coiled over him, he began to lose track of how many people he’d see while awake.

Eventually, his restless pacing brought him back to the bar from his first date. The atmosphere wrapped him in a choker of both the fancy and perverse. Everything seemed so clearly catered towards horny older men, the ones who looked to score fresh meat with pretty drinks sporting long names and sugary sweetness easy to slip bitter pills inside.

Flirting was liberating. More than a few men made their way to his seat, holding a swagger only the financially stable had. While their attention was flattering, there was often something… substantial, to the conversations. At best, they were pretending to care about a relationship after sex. At worst, they truly wanted romance. The idea made his skin crawl worse than before, and so, he declined every time. 

But he found his luck, eventually, tucked in the last stall of the men's room; a hole, just big enough for its purpose to be obvious, and then, if that wasn’t enough, a myriad of scribbled words and arrows pointed directly at it to tell you what is was.

The place was filthy. It looked absolutely disgusting, and smelled awful. But that didn’t stop him from folding, and then dropping, his cardigan on the floor, using its soft fabric to comfortably kneel once more. He stayed in that stall for 3 hours. Later, he slept for 18.

… and still.

Somehow, someway, even  _ that _ wasn’t enough. Jeremy could feel it clawing harder at his throat--an ache. A need. Primal, visceral, drowning out every thought and feeling with a poisonous dosage of aphrodisiac. He went again, and then again, and still he craved more; soon, the sex binge had last even after school was back in session, and he dutifully went to every class like a good boy--only to head straight to a club, or a date, after.

_ Why doesn’t this satisfy me? _ The briefest mention of something sexual continued to set Jeremy’s body on fire, and, somehow, he was still masturbating through the middle of this. 

And that’s how the whole school found out.

During the first week of 9th grade, Jeremy had mapped out most of the places best equipped for stealth jerks. Even as a kid, he’d always been a bit of a hound, hands down his pants at an age that seemed obscenely young in hindsight. Finding places to  _ calm himself  _ was a mandatory accommodation.

He’d never been this frequently desperate, though. So few places were consistently available to meet his now-constant physical demands, and so, he risked discovery again and again by spending copious amounts of time hidden away in the boy’s locker room.

And of course, the captain of the soccer team happened to walk in on him.

And of course, Jeremy offered to blow him before he can stop himself.

… just like that, half the team seemed to find its way to the lockers during breaks. They took their turns, one to each period, padding out large parts of Jeremy’s day; the time he’d usually spend talking to Michael, now spent drenched in cum. Probably for the best.

He started gaining traction. The routine leaked out of the team fairly quickly; track champions, tennis geniuses, swimming hunks, a revolving door of raw muscle and testosterone. Then came their unathletic friends, and Jeremy didn’t even bat an eye. 

Word spread. Anyone who didn’t mind gender found their way to him. Few offered to help him get off. He was fine with that. Some even asked he not touch himself at all, and that was okay too. 

The only thing that mattered now was their pleasure. His obsession hinged solely on his competency to supply that, and his own feelings fell by the wayside.

He started to give out his number--or, well, someone would pull him off a cock long enough to let him gasp out the digits, before he was shoved down once more--and his services turned on-demand. He saved nothing nor memorized any of the faces, following anonymous times and locations. It didn’t matter who showed up.

And then he cut out most of the Tinder dates and the gloryholes. The role of King Slut at Middle Borough became his entire world; his peers took all his energy, and left him with only scraps.


	6. oh, just swallows me whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School is Out, by Regina Spektor

_ Baby. Baby. Baby. _

Jeremy couldn’t tell if he actually heard it, or if it was just the sound of pouring rain.

The stool he perched on for class dug uncomfortably into his calves, but the feeling was far off, stifled by a record on loop.  _ Baby _ kept coming back, a melody from which he had no reprise.

It went endless throughout the day. When watching a movie with his dad, wishing he had the energy to gush about the production like normal. During his breakfast rush, as he crammed toast and jelly down his throat because he slept through the alarm  _ again _ . Even listening to Christine rehearse Shakespeare, this new-old trauma mixing with the memory of intrusive electricity and reminding Jeremy how much the crush had soured. 

Hell. It was there in the middle of blowing someone behind the gym, or in the back of a car. Every time he had a moment’s pause, the chorus would swell; a reminder that time’s arrow marches forward, and with it, the impact of his memories only grew stronger. 

Not that anything else had dislodged yet. Still, his mind refused to let go.

_ It might be easier if I had someone to distract me. _ With all the time he spent entertaining company, all that vulnerable skin-on-skin contact, Jeremy thought he would’ve made new connections or partners or, y'know,  _ friends _ . He expected he’d understand them better--or maybe he’d expected they’d understand  _ him _ .  _ ‘Oh, he’s just weird because he needs other people to tell him what to do, so why don’t we order him around?’ _

But the isolation persisted, and nothing changed--well, no, that’s not true. Michael and Rich weren’t talking to him. Not that it was intentional on their part. This was a bridge he’d burnt himself.

… you’d think someone would want to make nice with the boy who sucked dick for free, though. Maybe cocksleeves didn’t get to have friends--and that was what he’d become, after all--so he should just  _ shut up, Jeremy, you worthless slut _ and be grateful.

It’s not like they were trying to hurt him anyway. His comfort just wasn’t on their radar.

At night, in his bed, when he could feel the restlessness settle into his bones and his joints swell, all he could do was wait for tomorrow and hope the feeling of cock in his mouth would make the world stop for just one  _ second _ . A moment of blissful peace, a hint of physical comfort, and with that never-ending chorus, every pause threatened to break him. It’s the only thing he can control. It’s the only thing he  _ has _ .  _ So why stop? _

It didn’t help that Middle Borough was so small.

Every day, Jeremy tried desperately to stay as far away from Michael as he could. Taking paths they never travelled, avoiding their favorite high five spots, bypassing all the the places their eyes met during the day. 

And when there was no other choice, all he do is  _ stare.  _ Like a creep. Like a  _ loser _ . Rich was almost always close behind, their hands linking together instinctively, and Jeremy always tormented himself by wondering if Michael was ever this happy with him.

_ He wasn’t. _

But it wasn’t like Michael was the only one improving. Jeremy could see the improvements in Rich too. Previously, they’d begun developing  _ something _ ; a mutual understanding the natural consequence of three weeks roomed together. They’d talked about everything and anything, they made each other laugh and cry, in-jokes and in-triggers coming and going faster than they could keep track. 

Only Jeremy let that _ something  _ sour into Discord messages unopened and Snapchats ignored, until, eventually, Rich took the hint. He never told Jeremy about Michael, anyway. Clearly their bond was never that deep.

Every time he thought about it, the weight wrapped around him like two sets of jaws threatening to tear him apart. Why was he still crying over this? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter. They don’t need him, just like his fucking mother doesn’t need him--but  _ still _ time’s arrow marches forward, so he’ll make his own meaning with the bodies of boys kind enough to give him purpose. This is all he has to offer.  _ Baby _ : a broken doll.

A lingering phantom of  _ Him _ throbbed against fading electrical scar. The only one who promised to fix these shattered pieces, and Jeremy had to kill Him.

Maybe he should die, too.

_ God, I’m so tired of being alone. _


	7. I'll fake god today, hop up on a cloud and watch the world decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Ana, by Mother Mother

The truck’s sputtering engine jerked to a stop, grating noise being passed for music finally clicking off. Jeremy glanced at the driver, the human embodiment of a twizzler, and they both opened their doors. The sweet smell of spring swelled around them.

A pleasant relief from the stench of stale pizza and old BO clinging stained seats.

“C’mon.” Lanky’s voice was a nasaly mess, fitting for awkward attempts at the ‘cool DJ’ aesthetic. He’d subjected Jeremy to his ‘music’ through the drive, so wonderfully awful that Jeremy never thought to make a connection with Michael. “I’ll show you my bachelor pad. Sorry it’s pretty messy, I never have time to clean. I’m always working on new beats.”

Jeremy drew his cardigan closer as he hopped out of the car, steeling himself as they walked to his fairly standard townhouse, and untrimmed lawn and a few broken bottles the only concern. And then Lanky opened the door.

It wasn’t messy.

It was  _ filthy _ .

A numb whisper of  _ you get what you deserve _ echoed in his mind as he glanced around, the tail end triggering a throb and headache--tuning to the beat of a bass. Lanky’s music seemed to play on loop wherever he went, stock beats marching on without consent, just as rancid as the grime that lay at their feet.

Jeremy took a second to let his eyes close. For the first time in weeks, he was back with an older man.

Apparently, Lanky got Jeremy’s number from his brother. Just the sort of creepy behavior Jeremy should avoid, and he’d initially drafted a no with how candid and insistent Lanky had been. Instead, he agreed to hook up on impulse that same day. Why? He was so busy with classmates without adding family. Did this mean he was edging back to men, or was the compulsive compliance growing uncontrollable? Maybe it just didn’t matter anymore.

As they moved, every room they passed through on their way to the back was as cluttered and gross as his first impression. Nothing, however, compared to the graveyard of broken plastic Jeremy was made to kneel upon. Sticky cans of ginger ale and rotten-food-filled containers dug in to stain his jeans, leaving knees to throb. Jeremy breathed through his mouth rather then face the smell that permeated, and there was a near-frantic speed to his hands on Lanky’s zipper. 

Without underwear, his cock popped out immediately, and Jeremy couldn’t help but stare.

It was obvious he hadn’t showered for days. Grey, clumpy filth collected around the folds of his swollen cock, a dizzying sight that edged Jeremy towards gagging. Unsurprisingly, Lanky already began leaking, a pathetic bead of off-colored cum like the dot of a diseased bullseye. 

…  _ diseased _ . Jeremy masqueraded a quick once-over for the obvious concerns with a tug of the shaft; also unsurprising, Lanky hissed. The ragged disbelief in his breath gave away how infrequently he got head, much less anything else. With the state of this environment and his crusted body, it wasn’t hard to understand why. 

Only people at their lowest would be with a guy like this. Not like that was a surprise. Wetting his lips, Jeremy glanced up at Lanky’s gaping mouth-breather expression, and leaned forward. 

The musk was overpowering. Eyes watered as the visceral scent of rancid human made his skin crawl. Everything about this left Jeremy on the edge of panic, but even still, he didn’t hesitate to envelope the head.

Bitter vinegar and soured salt. The taste wasn’t as bad as the smell, but the reality of what it was kept up strong waves of disgust. His stomach flopped twice, mouth prickling with heated salivation he ignored.  _ You can do this, Jeremy. It’s what you were made for. _

His tongue was quick, but thorough. He pulled back foreskin enough to clean, as he went over every single inch and vein. Lanky, to his credit, didn’t demand Jeremy do anything different, and the hands resting in his hair didn’t dig in. Soft coos of “fuck, baby, that’s good” and “shit, your mouth is so hot” tempted Jeremy to roll his eyes, and he let them flutter close instead, energy better spent repressing the urge to vomit. 

Every bit of grime had to be sucked clean before he could move on, and after, his tongue swiped with neurotic speed across his teeth, checking again and again that he’d gotten it all.

_ Please don’t let him last long. _

Quick thrusts. Maybe Jeremy han’t manage true deepthroat, but what he took wasn’t something to scoff at. He wanted this to be over, and in his impatient speed, music guided his rhythm. Lanky seemed to appreciate that, at least. Hips thrusting to meet mouth on beat, driving Jeremy further and further down his cock.

“Oh fuck, oh _ fuck, oh--! _ ”

Hot cum poured down his throat. A safe, familiar taste; Jeremy swallowed with an exaggerated lick of the lips, and took small pleasure in the exhausted gasping above him.

A job well done.

\--

“C’mon. I bet you’d feel amazing.”

Jeremy picked at the hem of his cardigan, eyes darting everywhere Lanky wasn’t. “I…”

A grab at his hand. “Your curves are fucking fire. Look at you--you’ve got an ass built for babies and the dancefloor, but you’re a dude. That’s hot. Really hot.”

“Th… th-thank you, but I… I’m not…”

Jeremy’s face was a deep purple. Virgin. Virginal. The prospect of anything anal held for a distant point in the future; anything imagined in the present left him with a faint nausea and a slow crawl of dread.

… and yet.

_ What right do I have to say no?  _

He’s not seriously considering that, is he?

Jeremy had given up on dates over this. With every ask, it left him a solid wall of discomfort. He didn’t like saying no, but it was always his one hard limit. His one boundary. The only purity left untouched.

… he’s never even practiced. No plugs, no toys, no fingering. This was too dangerous, way too dangerous, he shouldn’t--

“Seriously, dude.  _ You can’t just keep that shit to yourself. _ ” 

_ … what right do I have to say no? _

A twin set of squeezes to his ass sent a spark down spine and the threat of cold sweat to temple. “It’ll be quick. I don’t last long. Trust me, it’ll feel great, I promise.”

The roof of his mouth had gone tacky with cum. How awful, to feel it mix with bile.

“… okay.”

He bent himself over on command. Terror radiated through him, but now doubt took a soothing tone.  _ You have to do this. It’s your purpose, isn’t it? You’ll be perfect at it. Why worry about the pain when it’ll all be over soon? _

He wants this. He wants this.

He needs to. 

Jeans slipped down thighs, his underwear following after. Behind him, a sharp inhale. When Lanky spoke, it rung close to awe. “Holy shit. You’re so fucking hot.” 

For a moment, silence. And then,

_ Smack.  _ Jeremy yelped, as Lanky’s hand slammed across his ass. A burning broke out, the pricking of swelling instant. Finger dug in, pressing the heat tightly together before letting go. “Fuck. Fuck, dude. Your skin is so white. I can see my imprint already.”

His eyes burned. He wiped at them before he could feel the constriction in his throat.

The sensation of palms against him was nearing unbearable by the time the hits finally stopped. He was given no time to catch his labored breath; his legs were spread, and he heard air sucked through teeth. “Shit.  _ Shit _ . Fucking awesome, man.”

Lanky pulled away, and Jeremy heard shuffling around the floor, the crinkle of bags and stomped plastic. When he came back up, there was the sound of a popped cap, and a squeeze. 

Lubrication. Well. At least that’s nice.

He shuddered as Lanky’s thumb pressed against, and then inside, and the pain was instant. He tried to force his muscles loose, a weak mimic of erotica written with a questionable understanding of sex. Lanky moaned something about his ‘tight warmth’, and used the word  _ pussy _ at least twice. Jeremy tried to ignore him, focused squarely on keeping his breathing steady.

The thumb was pulled out, replaced instead with an index finger. A slow crawl to the knuckle, and then, the base. It wasn’t enough to worry about tears again, but the discomfort radiated, even as lubricant allowed the ring finger to join.

Slowly, slowly, he was worked loose. Scissored open and shut, spread completely. Pleasureless, but the pain ebbed. Maybe this could work. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Then Lanky shoved himself in. 

And Jeremy panicked.

“Hey, calm--don’t--fucking stop squirming!” Lanky forced Jeremy’s face flat as he twisted his arms back. Jeremy hadn’t realized he’d been struggling until he couldn’t move, and then the urge to flee clawed at every pore.

Lanky shuffled closer, a slow push to the base of his cock. “Stop. Chill. It’ll only be a minute, okay? The pain goes away.” He pulled back, only to thrust forward again--

_ “--you just feel so good.” _   
Oh God. No. No, no, not now, not when he’s like this, please, he can’t--

_ \--breathe, the weight against his back pinning him to the floor, face to carpet, and his sobbing against the bunched panties shoved in mouth came with a struggle to suck in air-- _

He could feel blood trail down his legs, but Lanky didn’t notice that--

_ \--it hurt, it hurt, his legs were spread, and he was supposed to be in bed, but he was here, on the ground, and he couldn’t breathe, and something was inside, an-- _

**_“--there, doesn’t it feel good to remember that? Keep toying with me, Jeremiah, there’s more where that comes from--”_ **

“--oh  _ fuck _ , oh  _ shit _ , oh  _ God _ \--”

_ “--oh baby, don’t tell your mother about this, okay?” _

 

He felt a squeeze around his cock, and then passed out.


	8. when you free your eyes, eternal prize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aerials, by System of a Down

“You mean Heere, right?”

Michael frowned, staring at the insulated bag inside his locker. Two straws stuck straight out; he reached in, and ran his fingers over the plastic. Fidgeting.   


He'd been hearing a lot of talk about Jeremy. Rumors for either of them weren’t exactly uncommon--even after the Play--but it’s always some remix of ‘Heere’s an  _ autist’ _ , or ‘those two are fucking’, or even ‘Mell was  _ definitely _ the one who spiked the punch’.

But this. 

This was _ different. _   


"Yeah, him. What else does he do besides, like, handies?"   


"Man, you have no idea. Like, okay, me and Ryan went up to him after the pep rally last week, right? Just to see if he'd even talk to us. We hadn't even said 'hi' before he was on his fuckin’ knees!"   


"You serious?"   


“Fuck yeah I am. As if this shit was just  _ natural _ .”   


"... no way."   


"I'm tellin’ the truth, dude, swear to God. It's absolutely ridiculous but it was  _ so _ fuckin’ sexy, like, I was aching by the time he grabbed my fuckin’ balls."   


"Really? How was it?"   


One of them laughed. Michaels nails dug into his thighs.   


"Better then Jenna fuckin’ Roland, dude."   


"Holy shit! Really? He just gives it away for free?"   


"Fuck yeah he does. Even Cody got some."    


"Cody? Cody  _ Goranski _ ? Dude, gross!"   


One of their lockers slammed close. "He's officially the biggest slut in town.” Shuffling; another slam. “He'll even let you do it in his ass if you beg."

"Really? Fuck, Brendon said that and I thought he was bullshitting. Said he didn't ask at all, just pushed him over and stuck it in, and Heere didn’t even react.” A pause. “… so uh, how should I..,?" 

"Oh, dude--" they started walking in his direction, and Michael scrambled to act casual, "--I have his number. I'll hook you up."

His ears rang. Long after their voices faded, he stood, frozen, chest unbearably tight.

_ This can’t be happening. This can  _ not  _ be  _ fucking _ happening.  _

How could anyone believe  _ Jeremy _ , ‘can’t make eye contact with teachers’ Jeremy, ‘couldn’t form a coherent sentence for hours after seeing Christine in a bathing suit’ Jeremy, was a  _ slut? _ What, did all the stupid lies about Brooke and Madeline get  _ boring? _

This fucking school.

Unfucking _ real _ .

"--Hey, babe!"

A kiss to his cheek jolted Michael out of himself, a jarring shift. Rich bounced to his side, boyish spunk rolling off him in waves. Michael managed something adjacent to a grin, his body slowly uncoiling. "Hey, _ lover-boy _ ."

They kissed, the sweetness a temporary salve.  Rich glanced into his bag. "Whatcha got? Aw, cool, a frostie! Make sure you dip your fries in that bitch, bro. Tastes awesome!"

Michael laughed, pulling both out. "The other one’s for you, Dorkus, so we'll have to split a fry together."

"It is?"   
The way Rich’s eyes sparkle when he was given gifts,  _ especially _ food-related, had a way of piercing through Michael’s ice-cold inner-cynic, leaving him flustered and proud. "Yeah, you. I'm not gonna eat two frosties by myself,  _ bro _ ."

Rich’s laughed, even as his move to reach inside Michael’s locker seemed timid. As he moved to close it, he paused, staring at the photos taped inside. "Oh. You and Queere."

Michaels smile wavered. "Well, we  _ are _ besties, Rich."

"Huh? Oh, I know! It’s not--I'm not, like, jealous," Rich spoke very quickly, his hands flailing about in a frantic performance. "I know you guys are tight! I get it, I totally get it. Like peanut butter and jelly, or peanut butter and chocolate, or… whatever, just, I’d never get between that. I promise. But, like…” His hands fell to his side then, stiff. “I'm kinda worried about Jer."

Michael’s lips twitched again.  _ Worried. _ “You are?”

"Well. You've been hearing the shit they’ve been saying, right?” Rich moved closer, glancing around. When he spoke again, his voice felt so soft. It was such an odd contrast to his usually explosive energy. “Like. All the guys, they’ve been talking about him too, y’know? And, the other day... um." 

He paused. A look of deep discomfort passed over his face. 

"Jake went to go wash up after practice yesterday, and he told me that he saw Jeremy, um, with the coach. Like…” Rich’s shoe tapped quickly against the linoleum, nervous. “ _ With _ the coach." 

"... what?"

No. 

No, there’s no fucking way.

… But.

Maybe it was because he’d stopped equating masculinity with the toxic heteronormative garbage he’d grown up around--or maybe because he realized how hot his meathead boyfriend was--but Michael found that interacting with jocks wasn’t inherently worse than with the rest of the school; because of this, he figured out that (while a bit aloof and definitely a flirt) Jake was easily one of the nicest guys. Trustworthy. Respectable. Not someone who’d lie about  _ this _ , at least.

Plus.

If Rich believed it...

"... shit."

"Yeah.” He rocked backwards on his heels. “Same."

Michael ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay, I’m gonna talk to him. Maybe we could… I dunno, smoke a bowl and relax or something.” He winced. “Shit.  _ Shit. _ This is  _ fucked _ .”

“It is. So totally fucked, bro.” Rich’s hand brushed against Michael’s, gentle. “I’m sorry.”

“Dude. I’m not the one being called a slut by fucking  _ everyone _ .”

“Yeah, I know. I know. Just don’t, like...” He looked away for a moment, trying to find the right words. “... blame yourself.” 

Michael deflated a bit, closing his eyes. He pulled his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I won’t.” This doesn’t make sense. Hadn’t they been through enough? Fires and supercomputers and the fucking  _ bathroom _ . 

_ Why can’t he tell me when he’s distressed? _

“I just… we should’ve talked about this already. It’s weird, you know?” He slipped his glasses back, taking a deep breath. “After last year, he’s been really open, but I haven’t seen him much recently.”

… In fact.

He hadn’t seen Jeremy at all.

It was almost like--

“Wait. Is he avoiding me?” Michael’s eyes popped back open, and his expression pinched. Rich grimaced.

“... maybe.” Rich tugged at the hem of his tank top, his look alternating sympathy and concern. “I noticed he wasn’t, like… Yeah, maybe, but listen, you didn’t do anything--”

“But I did! He wouldn’t--t-that’s not like him, he’s not--”

“Michael--”

“ _ Fuck _ . Fuck, Rich. I’m sorry, I… I-I have to find him.” He fished into his pocket, pulling out his inhaler on reflex. Panic burned the tips of his fingers. “I love you, okay?”

Michael took a puff, and then pressed a kiss to Rich’s cheek, ignoring the concern in his squirming.

-

The sea of restless teenagers in the main hallway felt suffocating as Michael struggled to remember Jeremy’s patterns. The ease at which he’d forgotten their routine in favor of smacking lips with his boyfriend felt chilling post-mortem, but at the time, he hadn’t even noticed. What a shitty friend he was, huh? Hadn’t he always been so aggressively _ jealous _ whenever he thought Jeremy had forgotten him? _ Hypocrite. _

The crowd thinned by the back entrance, save the occasional smoker or drop-out, and it took only a moment for Michael to spot Jeremy cutting across the field by his usual, anxious gait. Behind him, someone followed; an older man, holding a set of keys, baring teeth as sharp as knives. Predator. Monster. They all wanted to hurt Jeremy, didn’t they?  _ His _ Jeremy; his first love.

A surge of anger coiled around his throat.  _ “Jeremy!” _


	9. and he sang about what I'd become

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bird Song, by Florence + the Machine

_ “--Jeremy!” _   


_ Michael. _   


Jeremy looked up, startled. The nameless face he’d planned the evening with quickly vanished, probably afraid of being caught with a student, but Jeremy didn’t notice.

Because Michael was here.   


Because Michael was sprinting  _ straight at him. _   


Oh. Oh God. Jeremy's heart clenched high in his throat, and his eyes didn't know where to focus--the trees, the school, himself. He bit his lip, a desperate need to run itching at his skin.

But he can’t avoid this.   


He can't avoid this.   


He  _ can't avoid this. _   


_ What if Michael finds me disgusting? _   


Jeremy squared his shoulder, back arched as he held himself steady. "Yeah?"   


... God, he sounded so harsh. It hurt to see Michael waver, as his determination flickered with hurt and confusion, only to harden again.   


If Jeremy can't avoid this, he has to hope he can convince him to let it go.   


"You've been avoiding me." Michael’s eyes were piercing. There was an edge of anger to his voice. "I don't know what's going on with you, man, but I want to. I’m hearing about you all over school. Like…” He seemed to struggle with what to say, before his voice lowered. “Your  _ sexuality _ .”   


Jeremy's face burned scarlet with a hot wave of shame. He looked away. “Wh-... whatever you heard about me is p-probably, um, probably true, Micah.” He forced himself to look at Michael’s eyes again and smiled tightly. “I guess I'm... I'm the  _ King _ of  _ Suburban Legend _ now, huh?" 

A reference, to a movie, in the middle of a fight. The sort of stupid thing he’d do. It was a scene from one of his favorites, actually; the protagonist’s love interest stood in the face of his anger and proclaimed, loud and proud, how promiscuous she’d been.

The relationship failed.   


He had no time to consider that. 

Michael picked up on it, though. His eyes flashed big for a moment, and then narrowed. "What does _ that _ mean?"   


Jeremy grabbed at the hem of his cardigan, and wet his lips. “... L-look, it's not important. I'm, um. Fine. I’m fine. You're freaking out over n-nothing." 

Except he wasn’t the one panicking. Michael stepped closer, and for a moment, his proximity was almost comforting. Two friends, connected again. Jeremy’s hands twitched with the desire to touch him.   


"Are you really having sex with the whole school?"   


He jerked backwards, three steps, and he bit his tongue until it bled.    


... fuck.

What if Michael tells him to stop?   


What if Michael knows why he's doing this? What if Michael can sense it, how dirty he is? What if he's ALWAYS been that dirty?   


What if that's why he left for Rich? 

What if Jeremy never mattered  _ at all? _   


Dizzy. Jeremy felt completely, painfully  _ dizzy _ . Michael's hands went up, hovering for a moment as if he knew how off balance Jeremy was, before balling into fists at his side.   


"... yeah. Yeah, I am."

"What the  _ fuck,  _ Jeremy.”

Michael looked so...  _ angry _ . 

He hated this. He  _ hated _ this. Was it really so obvious how disgusting he is?  _ Oh, God, does everyone know? _ His hand grabbed at his stomach, nausea rolling over him; he must be so filthy and exposed.  _ Is that why he’s here, to dangle my failures in my face? _

"What, um, wh-what do you mean?" 

His thoughts wouldn’t stop cycling, over and over again, like a snowball forming an avalanche. Michael has to know he’s broken, right? So wasn’t it cruel, to drag this out? To kick him while he’s down; make him admit that he’s  _ exactly _ what everyone thought? Jeremy could see the corner he’d been backed into, and wanted desperately to claw himself out.

" _ I mean _ , what the  _ fuck _ are you doing?” Michael hissed. “Man, c’mon, this isn't like you."

_ Oh, don't give me that shit, _ Jeremy thought, and the bitter venom of it surprised himself. "This... t-this  _ is _ me, Michael. I know, um, I k-know what I’m doing."

Michael ran a hand through his hair. "No, obviously, you  _ don’t _ . Listen. They're talking about you like you're a fucking… fucking  _ fleshlight _ or something. It’s  _ fucked _ . Why didn’t you tell me? Is something wrong?” His hand dropped to his side then, thumb hooking in his jacket pocket, near, Jeremy guessed, his inhaler. All at once, his anger turned to exhaustion. “Did I do something wrong?" 

Jeremy's mind flashed panic, sirens shrieking all around. He cringed. Michael didn’t do anything. Michael didn’t do anything at  _ all _ . 

**_You sure do love hurting your friends, don’t you, Jeremy?_ **

Trapped. Trapped. Why did he have to be here? Oh, God, he felt like his life was caving inward.

"O… of course n-not,” his eyes darted around, frantic. He could feel sweat forming against his brow. “You didn't… d-didn’t do… l-look, I'm just, like, just horny, I guess?” His laugh sounded as tight as it was forced. “Just sorta, um, j-just horny and lonely and  _ bored _ and… whatever. There's nothing, like. There’s nothing wrong."

Jeremy turned, starting to walk away, but Michael grabbed his shoulder. " _ Please, _ ” he begged, his grip steel even as Jeremy tried to yank free. “Please just tell me what's going on with you. I'm really  _ worried _ \--"

_ I can’t breathe _ . _ I can’t breathe. I can’t-- _ "You don't h-have to, um... I t-told you, I'm fine--"

"You're putting yourself in  _ so _ much danger--”

"No, n-no, I'm not, really, I know--"

"If you did, you wouldn't be  _ running off _ and--"

"I-I don't think I asked--"

Michael spun Jeremy around. Their eyes met, and Michael grabbed his face with both hands. "God  _ damn _ it Jeremy, you’re letting them  _ fucking use you! _ "

_ Silence. _


	10. now that I am done, remember I will always love you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daddy, by Korn

_ Letting them  _ fucking  _ use you. _   


Jeremy stared at Michael. The words cut through his paranoia, leaving him still.   


Until the anger came.   


"... who cares."   


Michael took another step forward, frowning. "Jeremy--"   


_ "No.” _ Jeremy put up both of his hands. On the defensive. “No. Fuck you, Michael. Stop… s-stop acting like you fucking care, you fucking  _ asshole _ ."   


They both went silent as his vitriol sank in.

Michael, looking as if he’d just been slapped, took a moment to shake his shock, before he opened his mouth to speak. Jeremy beat him to it.   


"Don’t. No one is ever… at least I have  _ something _ .” He was shaking, with his jumbled thoughts struggling to translate. “If I don’t do this, I’m alone. So… s-so why does it matter? Who cares? You? Am I making y-you uncomfortable?”

His own words left Jeremy reeling; he stumbled backwards, side to side, balancing precariously on his heels. “Should I just… sh-should I just  _ die? _ What do you  _ want? _ ”

Michael physically recoiled. "Hey… h-hey, Jer, that’s not--"

"Shut up. Shut  _ up _ .” Jeremy tugged at the sleeve of his cardigan, pulling it from his arm so he could claw at the skin again. Scabs peeled away, and blood started to drip from his fingers. “Why are you here? Is it pity?  _ ‘Poor Jeremy, his mom doesn’t love him and his grandfather fucked him.’ _ ”

... his grandfather.

His grandfather’s hands, over his body, and...

Oh.

Oh God.

"... dude--"

"Oh fuck  _ off _ , you  _ know _ this! Fucking... everyone does, don’t they? They can all see me, they--they can all--they can all see this!” He threw his arms out, presenting himself as if a sacrifice. “They can see his hands on me, and… a-and... fuck, you wanna know why I've been avoiding you? Because n-now  _ I’m _ remembering! Now I know too! I just--I went out, on a fucking date, just a normal goddamn date, and all I wanted… all I w-wanted was to feel like I had control over myself, and the whole fucking  _ dam _ broke loose!” 

His hand clutched at his chest, the feeling of air in his lungs suffocating, as if it’d expand around his heart and he’d surely drop dead. He was panting, gasping in a flurry of words, with such little control of himself, spiraling down.

But.

For one second--

Just one second--

He snapped back to the Present, and saw Michael.   


Michael, staring back at him.   


Michael, eyes wide and mouth gaping.

Michael, who looked like…

Like...   


_ He didn't know. _ _  
_

But he does now.   


The horror of what Jeremy was saying started to really sink in, but it was too late. His guts were spilling freely.   


"I was a child, Michael. I was so young, and I had no idea what was happening, you know? How could I? I was just so confused and... Oh, God, it hurt, it hurt  _ so bad _ , how could  _ anything _ hurt that bad?"

Jeremy felt so small. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, feeling so hopelessly pathetic. "I never wanted to feel like that again, but I let them… I f-fucked someone, and I d-didn’t want… God, Michael, I've always been so fucking  _ ruined. _ "

**Everything about you is terrible, Jeremy.**

_ You’re doing so good, baby. _

"... This is really all I am, isn’t it?” It felt so obvious now. How hadn’t he noticed before? “I guess I thought I was worth… something. I thought, maybe, I had a future. That’s stupid, right? Like, here I am, sucking off any guy that gives me the time of day. I chose another easy option as soon as I had the chance. I really…  I’m truly w-worthless after all.”

He laughed, and then let his arms drop to the side. Everything felt so swollen and heavy.

“I wish I could’ve told you I was doing this. I wish I felt comfortable like I used to, but I just... you have someone who loves you. You deserve people who love you. But I don't. I'm just a stupid, spoiled, selfish brat whose mom never even liked him. How pathetic is that? I’m so fundamentally  _ broken _ that I had to buy a fucking pill to fix myself, and it didn’t even  _ work _ . I just… I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm l-like this. I'm sorry I can't... I c-can't stop talking, I can't stop, they won't stop, he wouldn't stop, and I just--"   


As he looked up, his eyes caught Michael’s, and saw   


_ Despair. _

Clear as day.   


Finally, his mouth shut. His world was unraveling right in front of him, and so his knees wobbled. All he could do was watch it his life fall through tears streaming down Michael’s face. 

Until he was falling, too. 

Legs crumpling under him, Jeremy bit at his hand and his wrist, trying to keep himself from screaming. Finally, sobs, like waves, crashed over, muffled by his skin.   


“Jeremy…”

He let his hand drop only when he was sure he’d stay quiet.   


"Jeremy."   


Michael was standing in front of him.   


"... I'm so sorry."


	11. before you jump, tell me what you find, when you read my mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Read My Mind, by The Killers

All Michael could do was watch as his best friend crumbled.

... he'd read about this. Repressed memories always come back--but weren’t they supposed to stay buried until you were older? Why now? Was it because of last year? Was it because of the fucking Squip?

_ Does it even matter? _

All the implications hit him at once.

Jeremy said he's been molested. 

Jeremy said he’s been molested, and now he's been raped, and Michael wasn't there for him, Michael didn't protect him.

Michael didn't even fucking comfort him.   


Oh, God, he felt ill. Jeremy was  _ right there _ , he should've seen the signs, but he just... he was so  _ in love _ . What kind of a shitty fucking friend was he? He should’ve seen this. He should’ve  _ known _ .

Because when they met, Jeremy was already so doe-eyed and nervous at the tender age of seven. Mrs. Heere hadn’t even left, but he rarely made eye contact, and spoke through his stutter as little as possible. Michael felt a kinship immediately. He may have had an easier time communicating, but even still, their neurosis and oddities brought them together.

Except Michael hates himself enough to splatter cuts against his thighs. For some reason, it never crossed his mind that Jeremy probably felt the same.

Even after last year. 

... God, how badly did Michael drop the fucking ball--

_ Wallowing doesn't help anything.  _ Michael bit his tongue, the pain cutting through his self loathing. He can’t think about that now. 

Carefully, he shuffled closer to Jeremy, who wouldn’t look at him. Was this a good idea? Michael can’t think of anything else to do. Slowly, he sat down, his arms open. "... Is it okay if I--"

Jeremy buried his head into Michael’s chest instantly. Michael could feel him trying to stop his tears, and his throat went tight. "Hey... hey, Jer, it's okay."

It was strange; their forms fit together so easily, but he hadn't held Jeremy in so long. Why? They were best friends, if not soulmates, and they both ached for comfort. Yet some stupid concept of maturity, or a toxic society, or their own fears got in the way? It was almost as silly as it was tragic. Michael’s hands touched Jeremy’s shoulders, and then wrapped around his back. “... it’s okay to cry. Let it out.”

Michael watched quietly as the sobs picked up again and rolled over him, weeks of emotional distress bubbled like crystalline drops pouring down cheek. Had Jeremy gotten to cry at all, when pawed at by those  _ men? _ How many people got to use his pain for exploitation?

It was so hard to tuck his rage away, but he couldn’t lose himself right now. Softly, he whispered, “You know I’m sorry, right?”

Jeremy pulled his head away, even as he stayed curled towards Michael. He frowned, and shook his head in protest, but Michael went on. "I should've... God, I was so upset when you left me last year, but I didn’t even notice this. I’m such an asshole, Jer." He laughed, humorless. “... I’m sorry.”

Jeremy shook his head again, insistent. "... no, n-no, I… I-I sh… should be the o-one to… I--”

"Jeremy.” There we a finality to Michael’s voice, but he smiled as soft as he could. “ _ You never did anything wrong _ .”   


The way Jeremy looked at him was heartbreaking.

… He needed the chance to grieve the childhood stolen from him if he would ever get better.  _ You can’t escape the past _ , right? But maybe, with Michael by his side, they could piece together a better future from shattered glass.   


Michael took Jeremy’s hand, pulling him to wobbling feet. With slow steps, they walked together, Jeremy leaning on his shoulder. Every time he tripped, Michael was there to steady him.

By the time they got home, Jeremy wasn’t stumbling anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this. I hope you got something out of it.


End file.
